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(poets beware...someone is hacking or
editing the creativity out of your work...see at the end of this once beautiful poem which I now have to try to piece together from memory....) June 30 2015..update...I found an old copy of this poem, so I am doing my best to restore it to its original form. the violent steep valley the undulating hills echo through me un-quietly how does a sad poet fall down the steel mouse sits at her window sill rusting away knowing she has never had her day and all there will ever be is rust there are my sweets, my beloved boys... they are two small children heaving their lungs hard and high filling the room with billowing clouds of air and with their heavy sighs but sleep does not meet me half way my mind is un-quieted a violent steep valley undulating hills they spread out before me echoing un-quietly how does a sad poet fall down the pale steel mouse frets at the window sill rusting away watching the clouds as they steadily fill up the sky and the rain never goes away and the rust on her mantle is her inheritance so many live carefully emeshed within the amber light of day their skin is pigmented rosy with success I've lived in the waning it is a monstrousness sometimes half-awake pinned like a butterfly sweating to a mat other times pinned to a nightmare each a web of marionette madness where do the fear words come from do ideas come full-formed miasma from the air and hope is a tsunami of drowned debris and I am the black art witch if this is any art for which you care I doubt it I am past the point of care... (where is this located on the atlas by the way, or is it significant enough to be on any world maps?) you either read or don't read this you chose or chose to not chose you filter and sift or you let stink what you believe sinks in here go ahead, be your own Ship Titanic or be your own Savior or be your own Buddha of Benevolence or be your own Meme-oh be oh-so-right then make yourself great feet of clay dissolve yourself in pills, drugs or alcohol take a picture of yourself each hour of the day so you disappear less when you die I know things: I've already drowned a lifetime ago pulled myself to shore in a north flowing river I know about reincarnation reinvention, rust un-quietness but, today is the advent of the self-important self-referential generation who at times just doesn't care nor knows what it means to notice so why not join them and just p*ss off... call me a rotten windbag but call me it soon write me an epitaph or a dirge for the bassoon because we're all out of time sooner than we think and I've been thinking way too much lately un-quietly and the time? I just checked my watch and the second hand on my watch is missing... yes, we're outta time. COPYRIGHT August 30, 2014 ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED BY THIS AUTHOR MELOO/MELISSA A HOWELLS SITE/COPYRIGHT (STRAIGHT FROM HELL ) TILT-A-WORLD ALL IDEAS/RANTS/POETRY AND PROSE ARE LEGAL PROPERTY OF THIS WRITER THANK YOU FOR READING recently re-edited March 2015 recently re-edited April 19, 2015/final edit June 24th 2015...I recently noticed that my site was well HACKED AND THAT THIS POEM HAD BEEN EDITED... IN SUCH A WAY THAT I WOULD NEVER WRITE...NOT COOL. Even the type face was changed and theme was changed and all of the flow and word-choice were unrecognizable in places. Violet was substituted for violent...i.e. This was a poem that I worked diligently on and poured my heart into. This wasn't yours to mess with. Artistry is sacred. To be respected. ******* June 30 2015/ I found a copy of the old poem. Made necessary revisions. Blessings! LEGAL COPYRIGHT TO THIS WORK THIS SITE TITLE BY THIS AUTHOR Vote for this poem |
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